drifting
by Irrwisch
Summary: Castiel told stories no-one else ever could, of feathered dinosaurs or a bunny who had loved him. Stories of a shifting, drifting world that never stopped and Sam listened, never to speak, but to look and hear and understand, because Sam understood, and he listened and he looked and he saw.


Castiel was drifting.

If one didn't pay attention to the angel, he would just be there, silent and quiet, behind you, saying nothing at all. And as quickly as that, he would be gone, too, drifting to another room, being there. He rarely ever said good-bye; he just left because he needed to be somewhere else.

Dean didn't want to say it scared him. And perhaps scared wouldn't even be the right word not to use. It was strange, perhaps. Sam never had such a strong reaction however. But then again, Castiel never stood so close to Sam, either. Why, Dean asked once. I cannot look over his shoulder; Castiel had replied and never mentioned it again. It also had been way more upsetting back when Castiel still had wings. Now Dean at least _knew_ the guy could stand behind him, because he remembered him being here in the bunker – or wherever. Dean was almost glad his wings were clipped.

But no.

That would be unfair. Cruel.

Dean didn't want to be cruel.

He knew how much Castiel missed his wings; how much he hated his beloved car. Dean didn't understand, because he hated flying, but he _understood_ , too, because he knew that Castiel was a creature of flight. He must feel like Bobby, when Bobby had been tied to the wheelchair. He never talked about it, though. He misses his wings, he said once, while complaining about the dirt on the road and the slowness of human vehicles. It had sounded light, so at that time, Dean hadn't minded. Perhaps he hadn't bothered, because with Castiel, it was easier. He had to care for Sam already, more often than not he wasn't ready to care for Castiel as well and so he left him, figuring things out himself and complaining later.

Stop.

He didn't want to think about that.

Something brushed him by, and Dean needn't look up to see it was Castiel, drifting somewhere else. He never stopped while drifting, always twirling and moving. At some nights, quiet and dark and alone, he saw Castiel dancing, spinning around himself, listening to music only he could hear. Dean knew that Castiel knew that he was there, but it had never stopped. Sometimes, it seemed Castiel had forgotten how to stop, so he kept spinning, never sweating or exhausted, until he heard Sam rustling, waking up, and getting up. Sam didn't know. Sam knew a lot, a lot he didn't tell Dean, but this; this he didn't. It was Dean's, and Dean's alone. A part of Castiel all for himself; however strange and rude that sounded.

Sam, unable to sleep some nights but exhausted, was drifting in these nights and always Castiel swept him up, stopped him and sat him down, telling him stories of wars and stories of cultures all but forgotten and lost and defeated, and Sam fell asleep. Castiel told stories no-one else ever could, of feathered dinosaurs or a bunny who had loved him. Stories of a shifting, drifting world that never stopped and Sam listened, never to speak, but to look and hear and understand, because Sam understood, and he listened and he looked and he _saw_.

Castiel was talking, and Castiel was drifting.

Staying still was impossible and it would have scared Sam because stillness meant death and because he knew, Castiel would be drifting to witness the end of time, because he would. It was the child's thought in Sam: Castiel would see, _because he would see_.

Sam would talk about dogs sometimes and Castiel would still, listening and looking, knowing the next phrase and yet still waiting. Sam would talk, nothing at all, the same words all over and over again, because Castiel listened and said nothing at all, no reassurance, no _yeah Sammy, one day you will, right?_ and being heard was all Sam wanted in these moments.

Sam smiled when he went back to bed because now he could sleep and Castiel drifted around him, twirling alongside him and promised without a word that Sam would sleep. The silent steps were more reassuring than the gun in his night stand and it made Sam's heart warm.

When Sam was little, he had believed in angels, desperately so. After everything, he couldn't believe in them anymore, but believe in Castiel he could. The angel of Thursday and solitude and tears, drifting around in the bunker and Sam felt safe.

To Dean, Castiel never told stories. It was the quiet stories Castiel enjoyed the most, and Dean would not find peace in these. He'd want to know about the dinosaurs, but things as big as a mountain, things that were heard. He would never tell Dean a bunny had fallen in love with him. A soft, little bunny; knowing, understanding and not caring at all, because it was in love. Castiel hadn't understand, be he kept the little bunny safe, because it mattered and because it had looked at him and had run with him as far as it could.

No, to Dean; he danced. To Dean, he sang. Castiel knew where Dean was, because it was always the same spot, every time. It was a bunny, sitting on a rock, watching, seeing, never joining and loving it all the same. It made Castiel smile, thinking of the bunny, because it was a warm memory and Dean was warm too.

He danced this night, because he heard music and it demanded dancing. You're stoic, Dean had said and Castiel had not understood. Stoic was still, stoic was unmoving and he was drifting, moving, all the time and he had been irritated. Emotions on vessels were difficult, because it was not him. Dean would refuse to understand, because Dean kept forgetting Castiel was an angel, eternal, drifting, ethereal.

As human, Castiel had fallen. Clarence wouldn't drift, and Steve would stumble. Meg would have laughed at the blue machine in the store and would've helped him because he had made her laugh. She would've kissed him as Clarence and punched him as Steve, because he was Clarence and nobody else. Now, Emmanuel was forgotten, Clarence buried and Steve forsaken. He was Castiel, and Castiel was drifting in an empty room that needed to be filled because that's what rooms are for.

Dean watched, and smiled and sometimes he was drifting too, sometimes he came holding Castiel's hand and they were drifting together, a bunny and an angel, moving all the same.

Days were different than nights. Nights were quiet, lonely and forgotten. Days were noisy, crowded and remembered.

Castiel drifted all the same.

He talked to dying trees, and they lived; he petted little flowers and they bloomed. He took Dean's hand sometimes, when Sam didn't see, and Dean calmed. He spoke to Sam sometimes, when Dean didn't hear, and Sam rested. Sometimes Sam wanted to hug Castiel, because that's what he did. Sometimes Dean wanted to kiss Castiel, because that's what he wanted. Neither did anything though because it required stopping and both were afraid that if Castiel stopped, he would crash and burn.

Sometimes; Castiel would paint. Like a child, Sam said, because he didn't use a single brush, because he always neglected the easel they gave him. He painted a swirl of colour and they saw nothing in it, but it felt like drifting and it was good.

Sam and Dean talked about cases, and Castiel would deliver useful side-information, would give them information about the bunker's supply, offered to find the needed ritual. Sam said thanks and Dean would smile, because Castiel was so much Castiel. It was strange to think that way, but it was true.

Later at night, Dean was dancing with Castiel. He didn't like to think about it that way, because he was a man, but he liked the thought. No-one knew, so he could dance. Castiel never judged him, never looked twice at the reruns of Dr. Sexy Dean watched sometimes. He would just comment on the choice of cowboy boots at a clinic and then he never mentioned it again. Sometimes he was terrified Sam would wake up and see them, or Castiel would tell Sam someday. But when these thoughts came, Castiel twirled him and it made the thoughts go away.

In the drifting night, Castiel gave Dean a drifting kiss, never once stopping moving. Dean followed, slow, clumsy, but moving all the same, kissing a drifting Castiel whenever he could. Why the angel smiled he didn't know and he also didn't understand Castiel demanded a pet store next time they were in town. Dean also didn't understand why Castiel moved to the little fluffy bunnies and kneeled in front of them, smiling, saying no word at all. And yet a bunny came, looked up at him and smiled too. Dean was jealous for a moment and felt stupid about it, but then Castiel took his hand and drifted away, leaving behind a bunny that has been running a very, very long time.

It was a swirl of colour, thick paint and long finger-strokes. Castiel hadn't touched it in two days and when prompted, had simply replied that finished things need no more making. So Sam and Dean stood in front of it, Sam holding a cup of tea in his hands, Dean crossing his arms. Neither of them saw anything and they wondered if Castiel had meant to paint anything at all except colours on a canvas.

Sam, always the one for finer things, narrowed his eyes and tried to see anything resembling anything. He thought of all the stories Castiel used to tell him, about the cultures, the dinosaurs, the music, the languages, about the little bunny in love. Castiel had said it had stopped running now, and that it was happy. Sam was confused, but Castiel seemed happy too, so he didn't ponder.

Dean had never really appreciated art. He admitted something looked good, but he saw nothing in most artworks. It was just paint, old and simple. But this was Castiel, and so it mattered. Dean tried to see something, anything at all, but found nothing he could rely too. Just colours spread across the canvas, not direction or point, just there. He thought about songs Castiel used to sing, about the dances he had seen and danced himself. He thought of drifting kisses in a moving room and tried to see anything of it inside the swirls of paint and came up with nothing.

The brothers were thinking about turning away, looking for a case when Castiel stood between them, silently, quietly, because he didn't know otherwise. He took Sam's hand and squeezed it tight; he took Dean's hand and caressed it with his thump and looked upon the canvas. A long time, he stood there still, looking, smiling and drifting in one place. It was still when he spoke, because it did not need to be loud:

"It's everything."

And Sam and Dean looked again, seeing as much as before, the same swirl of colour, thick paint and long finger-strokes, but now it was everything, an ever-drifting world that would never stop and Castiel drifted alongside it, holding unto Sam and Dean and together, all three of them were drifting.


End file.
